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The Missouri Review

Poetry | February 11, 2020

Poetry: Anya Silver

Anya Silver

Hunted

Imagine being hunted—poached, illegally,
knowing how much someone desires you,
wants your body, will never stop stalking you
with whatever weapons he devises.
Camouflaged, utterly silent, relentless,
a hunter who would burn the very tusks he seeks,
would flay the hide that makes the quarry valuable.
And you know you’re being hunted—
every week, you come upon new corpses,
not only the weak and old among you,
but also the most determined, the fiercest
of your kind, caught up in a net they’d never seen.
Eventually, you will leave the tribe,
decimated as it is, always mourning and fearful.
You will walk to a lake, or a field,
someplace you find peaceful and beautiful,
and simply lie down there,
putting aside any of your last defenses.
You’ll wait for him to find you,
knowing there is no escape anyway,
hoping to get a bullet to the head
before he removes the knives from his sack,
with which he will extract the organs
from your body, one by one.

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